Athwart the highway rested the walled city of Darkmoor, and along the eastern side of the mountains ran Nightmare Ridge. There, Erik knew, the fate of the Kingdom and the world of Midkemia would be decided. The city was now ablaze with lanterns and torches along the wall, so from this distance it looked as if a celebration was in progress. Erik knew it was an illusion, for those lights meant the full weight of the Western Realm’s defenses would soon be in place.
The region of Darkmoor was actually to the south and east of the city that bore its name. The original Castle Darkmoor had been built as the Kingdom’s westernmost defense long before the founding of Krondor. Over the years the town, then the city, of Darkmoor arose, until it, too, had been enclosed by a wall. After Wolverton, Erik had ridden through a relatively empty landscape, as most of the terrain close to the city was rocky and non-arable. Small trees and tough mountain grasses, low brush, and some flowers hugged the roadside. Farther back, trees grew deep in the valleys and gullies running down the west face. Most of the area around the city itself had been forested clear ages ago. Food and other perishables were hauled into Darkmoor from lower-lying fanning hamlets.
On the highest peak to the north of the King’s Highway, rising like a guardian, was the original Darkmoor Keep. It was now a citadel, for it had originally been built as a walled fort and the wall and moat around the castle had never been removed. Now the city sprawled out across the pass, and the King’s Highway ran through a massive oak gate, bound with iron and flanked by high turrets, each with crenelated, overhanging parapets. Erik judged that no one attempting to reach the gate would be able to do so without being exposed to bowfire, catapults, or hot water or oil from above.
The setting sun threw a red highlight on the castle, and Erik turned to the west. In the distance he saw the sun disappear in a haze of smoke, from the fires in Ravensburg and Wolverton.
Erik reached the gate of the city to discover that the street was packed with refugees from the west. He led his horse past frustrated soldiers trying to deal with the throng of humanity attempting to squeeze into the city.
Erik shouted, ‘Which way to the keep?’
A soldier looked over his shoulder and, seeing the crimson eagle on Erik’s tunic, and the badge of rank, said, ‘To the center of town, and then left on High Street, Captain!’
Erik led his horse through the throng, occasionally having to shove someone aside to get past knots of confused citizens and fatigued, short-tempered soldiers. The journey took him nearly an hour.
Eventually he reached the ancient drawbridge that crossed the moat separating the citadel from the rest of the city. A squad of soldiers had blocked off the street for a hundred yards in all directions, so that those needing quick access to and from the Prince’s headquarters would not be impeded.
Erik approached the guard and pointed to the west. ‘Tell me, is that a clear passage to the western gate?’
The guard said, ‘It is. Runs along the wall and turns at that corner down there.’
Erik sighed. ‘I wish someone at the gate had mentioned that.’ He started past the guard, who dropped a spear before Erik’s chest.
‘Here, now. Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To see the Prince and General Greylock,’ said a very tired Erik.
‘And suppose you show me some orders, then?’
Erik said, ‘Orders? From whom?’
‘Your officer, assuming you’re not another deserter looking to tell the General some cock-and-bull story about being separated from your unit.’
Erik slowly reached up, took a grip on the spear shaft, and without apparent effort moved it back upright, despite the soldier’s attempts to keep it where he had it. As the man’s jaw tightened and his eyes widened, Erik said, ‘I am an officer. I know I look worse for wear, but I need to see the Prince.’
Other soldiers were approaching as they noticed the confrontation. Another shouted, ‘Hey, Sergeant!’
A sergeant in the uniform of Darkmoor, a black shield with a red raven on a branch on a tan tabard, ran over. ‘What’s this, then?’
The soldier said, ‘This fellow wants to see the Prince.’
The sergeant, a tough old boot used to instant obedience by his men, snapped, ‘And just who the hell might you be that the Prince would want to see you?’
Erik pushed aside the spear and stepped forward, locking eyes with the sergeant. ‘Erik von Darkmoor, Captain of the Prince’s Special Command!’
At the mention of his name, several of the soldiers stepped aside, while the others glanced at the sergeant. The old veteran grinned and said, ‘Looks like you’ve seen a bit of trouble, then. Captain.’
‘You could say that. Now, step aside.’
The sergeant didn’t hesitate, moving briskly to one side. As Erik passed, he handed the reins to the sergeant, saying, ‘Get him some water and feed him. He’s all done in. Then send word where you’ve stabled him. He’s a good horse and I don’t want to lose him.’